My interview came out three days before the photo exhibition opened.

Sterling enjoyed the profile, and even purchased one of John’s prints. John gave me a call. The Swiss Ambassador was hosting a posh cocktail reception and preview at the embassy. He could get me in as his guest.

“It’s time you tried some real food – veal sausage, cheese fondue, nusstorte,” he said. “None of your McDonald’s crap.”   

When I got there, the Ambassador shook my hand but seemed snooty. I thought I looked presentable. I didn’t have a jacket but I wore a tie. He passed me on to a suspicious flunky who double-checked my name on the guest list before allowing me to proceed to the buffet table. I  loaded up a plate and ate while I wandered around the mansion, finally bumping into John. He was carrying a large snifter of brandy and it wasn’t his first.

“I found the cigars,” he whispered.

“What cigars?”

“The Ambassador’s cigars. His personal stash.” He looked around the room to make sure nobody was listening. Then he leaned in conspiratorially.“Cuban. Montecristo!” A waiter came by and he drained his snifter, snatched two schnapps off the tray, and gave me one.“Follow me,” he said.  

John led me deep into the embassy to the ambassador’s private office. He walked over to the ambassador’s desk and opened a beautiful, oiled mahogany humidor, pulled out two cigars and handed me one. Then we retreated back to the library. A chic-looking European woman smoking a long cigarette was flirting in the corner with a well-dressed businessman. We plopped down on comfortable  leather armchairs, set our drinks on side tables and studied our Montecristos.

“I’m impressed,” I told John, sniffing it. “I’ve never had a Montecristo. Hell, I’ve never even seen one before.”

You couldn’t get them in the U.S. They were banned from being sold in the States after Castro took over Cuba. I couldn’t wait to try it. The only cigars I had smoked were dried-out, drug-store White Owls, five for 25 cents. The Montecristo was fragrant, moist and the size of a howitzer shell – it would take all evening to smoke it down.

“You have to clip off the end,” John explained, handing me a cigar cutter.

The lovers had disappeared, so we headed for the buffet room where John found a waiter with a lighter. I watched as he twirled the end so that the flame lit the tip evenly. The waiter offered to light mine too but I waved him away.

“I’ll be right back,” I told John.

I walked around the embassy until I spied my sour friend who had double-checked me in.

“I’m sorry, do you have a light?” I asked politely. I held out my cigar, making sure he noticed the Montecristo cigar band with the fleur-de-lis. He stared at the familiar cigar, looked at me, and stiffly raised his lighter. I twirled it like John had done, James Bond lighting up at the Monte Carlo casino, puffed several times then sent a stream of smoke over his shoulder.  

“Thanks,” I said cheerfully.

I found John back in the library sunk in his armchair. He raised his glass in a toast. “This is the life!” I clinked and settled in with my Cuban contraband.

So this was how the other half lived.